A Game of Cat and Mouse
by endercreep
Summary: John comes home from Afghanistan more crippled that she realizes. That is until she meets a certain whirlwind detective who refuses to do things the conventional way. That along with gaining the attention of a consulting criminal and the British government might make John think she never left. or the fic where john's a ex special agent and Sherlock is... well Sherlock Fem!lock


**New story. I hope my style has matured a bit more than from when a few years ago. I'm sorry I have been so inactive. I hope you enjoy the first chapter to this new story I've started for you guys.**

 **_-Chapter 1-_**

The cold stock of the rifle fits against my shoulder perfectly, allowing my body to aim the scope at the target point. Even if this is the desert, the air is fridged at this point in the night. It makes me want to breath normally, my breath could create puff of white clouds and let them join their relatives in the sky. But that could be compromising, so I refuse to indulge in that small thought. Maybe after the mission is over. After the bullet finds its mark. Speaking of, where is it. The time should be near its end... ah there it is, late as predicted.

A sharply dressed man walks out of the bunker I'm facing, his handsome face grim in my sights. His suit is charcoal grey, without a speck of dust or sand on it despite the fact the desert surrounds us on all sides. Such an important man in this war, but not a word on him would ever be in the news, no, he is far to careful for that. Such a bright flame, consuming and destroying everything around it. A wildfire that needs to be extinguished. And with a pull of the trigger, it is. A splash of crimson finds its way on his expensive clothes, dyeing it with rust.

I breath out, allowing my body to release a small amount of tension before I take aim on the corpses body guards. The jobs not over yet, I still have a few smaller fires to put out. There is a crackle in my ear.

"good shot, 'old 'em off 'til I can get our boys, ya? Then get the fuck outta there" the sergeants voice is loud enough in my head to hear over the sound of shit hitting the fan down there. I pick off quite a few, the guard going towards Jacks, the suicider struggling to pop himself next to Williams team but ultimately failing, the gunner sneaking behind Henry, who's doctoring the rescued solders. He may not be the teams medic, but he is the replacement until we can get another sniper down.

Bullets rain all around, spraying the sand and building. Gunfire can be heard from everywhere. This mission is going well; no casualties on our side yet, no sign of enemy sniper, and the team is even getting in and out faster than normal. Everything normal. Then I feel it. Eyes. Watching me.

Before I can do anything, a burning pain shoots through my shoulder, soaking the ground beneath me with red. I manage to not fall off the cliff, but I lose my rifle in my struggle.

"fire-fly's been hit, someone get up there"

"cant , no cov'er. 'old on mate, we're on our way."

I'm loosing too much blood to be healthy, but as dizzy as I am I can still understand the words and noises buzzing around in my head. There was no sign of a sniper. There wasn't any shots towards the men from a vantage point, no place for cover for one besides where I was. How could I have missed someone out here. Time passes, but I cant keep track of it, was it hours...days... later I find it was only minutes. I vaguely feel hands and pressure on my shoulder, voices saying muddled words. My eyes see the sky, and I let out a warm breath of air.

 **_-J-_**

I wake up. I shower, pick at some type of breakfast. Trash said breakfast. Go see Ellen. Avoid Harry's drunken calls and texts. Pretend I'm not broken. Take a walk through the park. Ignore the pitying looks. Ignore the sad glances. Go to physical therapy. Attempt to be normal. Try to be ok. Go home. Pick at dinner. Clean my gun. Go to bed, then wake up from night terrors and stare at the ceiling until morning. Rinse, repeat. That's my life now. I replaced tactical vests and uniforms for jumpers. I traded my rifle for a cane. My tent for a small apartment. My bedroll for a small cot. Sand and blood and bullets for paved roads and people and London. My old life for a new one. I am John Watson, and I don't know how to deal with this new life.

 **Hey thanks for reading the new story. Please tell me what you think of it and my new writing style. I always love Love LOVE when I get feedback from my stories.**

 **Stay awesome guys 3**


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